written by: Nigel de Costa
The November sun, low at this time,
backlights the beeches in an amber glow,
slowly disrobing their autumn reds,
decayed yellows; outer garments
carelessly scattered at their feet.
Among near-naked boughs
Aeneas’ golden baubles hang
flecked white with pearls;
stowaways, once hidden in
summer foliage, they leer over
the path to your netherworld.
Gifts for Persephone, back
from the quick, to be crowned
Queen of the Dead;
ready to open purgatorial locks
with these viscum keys.
As you and I walk beneath the trees,
lost in our Saturnalia,
it’s an opportunity, an excuse
to stop you, lift your face
and kiss your lips,
as if an excuse were needed.
Nigel de Costa
I am a new poet living in Watford, UK with my three children.
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